


The Ghosts We Keep Within

by irishcookie



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 07:02:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6364156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irishcookie/pseuds/irishcookie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She told Frank Castle that he is dead to her --- so it is almost fitting that his ghost haunts her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ghosts We Keep Within

**Author's Note:**

> I started out with a simple idea: Frank takes care of Karen when she's sick. That idea didn't make it. Instead I wrote this --- it's funny how you think you are writing one fic and you end up writing another. I hope you enjoy it. The title comes from the song "To Repel Ghosts" by Manic Street Preachers.

She told Frank Castle that he is dead to her --- so it is almost fitting that his ghost haunts her.

**X**

Karen settles in at _The Bulletin_. Despite her knack for digging up dirt, it is different than _Nelson and Murdock_. She has to rewire parts of her brain and push herself to achieve the lofty standards that Ellison has set for her (she knows damn well someone with her lack of experience should not be shuttered away in her own private office). 

She stumbles sometimes (thankfully Ellison is very good at handing out constructive criticism, often pairing it with a glass of scotch). 

Her niche, of course, is wrapped up in the life she has lived since waking up covered in the blood of Daniel Fisher. She knows violence and pain --- she knows how a tiny sliver of hope can be easily stamped down. She seems to understand just how the dark corners of Hell’s Kitchen works. 

Which is probably why Ellison litters her desk with crime scenes. 

It starts off with one photo: two men twisted together in an ally, each felled by a single bullet. The flash from the camera has made the blood appear a garish red and she instinctively swallows as she takes it in. 

Ellison sits across from her, his gaze shifting from the photo to her face. “Is this him?” He asks quietly. “Is this Frank Castle?” 

Karen’s entire body tenses, muscles locking together as if she is ready to sprint. Her mouth is set in a thin line and then she looks at the photo again. _Really looks at it_. Whoever these two are --- they didn’t die easy. In fact she is willing to bet that they had viewed the shots that killed as an act of mercy. She takes a deep breath and nods. “This is him.” 

Ellison takes the photo back and rises. When he is at the door, he pauses and she thinks he will say something trite ( _I’m sorry for poking at that wound_ ) but thankfully he spares her. 

The process gets repeated until it becomes normal. Word gets around the office that Karen has a particular insight --- an _in_ to the way Frank Castle’s mind works. She is presented with photos, descriptions --- snippets of a breaking story. The same question is asked. 

_Is this Frank Castle?_

Karen’s answers are delivered quickly ( _yes, no, too messy, not messy enough_ ). The images burn into her brain, adding to the collection she already has amassed. She wonders if she should be more fazed. It bothers her that she is not because it brings up questions she would rather continue to ignore. 

Finally, she goes to Ellison and tells him that she cannot be his expert on The Punisher anymore. She cannot build her day around wandering in Frank Castle’s psyche. She has come to _The Bulletin_ to use **all** her skills, not just **one** (and one that has proved to let her down at the most crucial of moments). 

He concedes. 

_For a while _.__

When a group of small time crooks are laid out much the same as the Kitchen Irish were seven months before ( _hard to believe it has been that long since this all started_ ), Ellison apologizes and hands her the story. 

She is the best one to tackle all the nuances it presents. 

**X**

It is hard to escape from the shadow of Frank Castle. 

**X**

She has a standing lunch date with Foggy. Once a week at a café on neutral territory between _The Bulletin_ and _Hogarth, Chao and Benowitz_. Most of the time they talk about random things: the ridiculously cold winter that has gripped the city, television shows that are worth binge watching, whether or not Foggy should get back together with Marci (okay, Foggy does not enjoy talking about that as much as Karen does). Occasionally work filters in but it is never anything specific --- merely compliments on past pieces she has done and complaints of working long hours. 

Until one day. 

She knows something is wrong as she sets her purse down on the empty chair beside her. She shrugs out of her coat and eyes Foggy. He looks worn and she has to ask. “What happened?” 

His head dips a little. “The business man found in his car…” 

She knows exactly who he is speaking of ( _Is this Frank Castle?_ **Yes** ). Her back straightens and she finds that her appetite is fast disappearing. “What about him?” She tries to sound casual but her voice is strained. 

“He was a client of ours. One of those high paying ones. He says _jump_ and the rest of us are supposed to say _how high_.” Foggy runs a hand over his face. “Never liked him. But Christ, Karen, I didn’t think he’d wind up dead.” 

She knows instinctively as the investigation unfolds they will find one hell of a skeleton in his closet. The very first time she spoke with Frank Castle he had told one simple truth: _I only hurt people who deserve it_. She wonders what to say to Foggy and before her mind can come up with an acceptable answer, Foggy ups the ante. 

“It’s just…sometimes I wonder if we played a part in this,” Foggy says. She must have a particularly incredulous look on her face because he is quick to continue. “We gave him a stage, Karen. We planted the idea in everyone’s head --- the world heaps enough pain on you, you have the right to throw it back.” 

Karen shakes her head. “No, Foggy, we never said that. We never said what Frank did was okay. We just… _I_ just understood why he would do it. We were trying to get him the help he needed.” 

“Were we?” Foggy throws a hand up. “You know what? Don’t answer that. Forget I even brought up the idea of Frank Castle. Let’s talk about something else. Let’s talk about the fact that there is a Star Wars Exhibition at _Discovery Times Square_. You, of course, are going with me…” 

She manages a smile. “Of course.” She doesn’t tell Foggy she hasn’t seen all of the films. She barely made it through two. Maybe she’ll give them another chance before she finds herself standing in front of an exhibit with Foggy jabbering away like she is supposed to understand what language he is currently speaking. 

**X**

Sometimes she thinks she sees blood on her hands --- and it does not all belong to James Wesley. 

**X**

She visits Matt every once and awhile. 

Surprisingly it is easier now, despite the distance between them. She likes knowing there are no secrets anymore. Once she even finds him still dressed as the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. He is out of breath and there are fresh cuts on his face. She helps him clean them up. 

He asks about Foggy. He knows about their weekly meet ups (he had mentioned it before she even had chance to bring them up). Something in her aches to realize the pair is still so divided. She has found a way to let go of the anger she once had leveled in Matt’s direction. She doesn’t know if they will ever have one of those perfect moments again but she knows she has to have him in her life. 

So does Foggy (apparently he is just more stubborn than her). 

Matt often recounts his nightly activities. She thinks now that he has opened that floodgate he is grateful to have someone to spill his secrets to. She listens to stories of the never ending parade of criminals that are seemingly attracted to Hell’s Kitchen as if it is a magnet. She can picture it all --- every brutal fight, every close call, _every life saved_. 

She rarely asks questions (though she wants to). 

That is --- until he says something that she can’t so easily ignore. 

“I ran into him tonight,” Matt says as he shifts on the sofa. He winces and she wonders how many times someone can break the same rib before it gives out completely. “The Punisher…” 

She briefly wonders why he doesn’t refer to him as Frank. She leans forward a little as the story spills out. Really it is only a matter of time before the two crossed paths again. Though they are fighting very different wars, in the end they have a same idea: remove the dark parts of Hell’s Kitchen (she knows Matt loathes any comparison to Frank so she doesn’t offer it). 

“Did you two fight?” Karen asks. 

“No,” Matt answers. He pauses. “Not really. We danced around it. Maybe it would have come to blows. I don’t know…” He shakes his head. “Frank…” _There’s his name_. “…finally decided that whoever got to piece of work that has been robbing bodegas first got to deal with him however they wished. I got there first.” 

_Frank will make sure he gets the next one_ , Karen thinks. 

She shouldn’t ask the next question. 

She even manages to stall for a moment or two before it comes tumbling out. 

“How did he seem?” She winces at the question. 

She shouldn’t want to know the answer. 

**X**

After all, in her eyes, Frank Castle is a dead man walking. 

**X**

She hates this time of year. 

New York is starting to thaw out after a hellish winter. What remains of the snow is greyish in color and littered with the dirt that comes with living in a city. As it retreats it leaves slushy piles that she has to carefully pick her way through as she walks to and from work (she steps in them more than once and grimaces every time). 

It feels like the rancid underbelly of the city comes out of hibernation (though they have by no means been quiet in the winter months). As a result, she finds herself working longer hours at The Bulletin. She rediscovers her ability to function solely on coffee and the stash of granola bars she keeps in her top drawer. She even misses a few weeks’ worth of lunch dates with Foggy (and rightfully catches hell for it). 

Finally, she feels like they are coming out of the other side of it. She attaches a rough copy of her latest piece to an email, sends it off to Ellison and breathes a little easier. It’s late but she rises with the knowledge that when she arrives at the paper tomorrow she won’t have to push herself as she has the past few weeks. She can actually relax (and _hey_ , maybe even eat a proper meal). 

Karen slips into her coat and grabs her purse. She envisions the comfort of her bed as she leaves _The Bulletin_ and begins the short trek to her apartment. There is even a slight smile on her face and she finds that she doesn’t mind the lingering signs of winter (in this moment; she’ll be cursing it come morning when she plunges her pump into a puddle of icy cold water). 

However her moment of peace is short lived. 

She knows enough about living in Hell’s Kitchen to know when she is being followed. Oh, he’s not obvious about it. In fact, she gives him credit for actually showing patience. He’s about a half a block back, hands stuffed in his pockets and his head down. She is careful not to get caught staring at him and quickens her pace just enough to keep it from being noticeable. 

For a moment she wonders what she has done now. Which hornet’s nest has she stomped on hard enough? She has given up believing in coincidence. Though these particular streets are home to pickpockets and muggers by the dozen, whoever follows her does so with more purpose than to lift her valuables off of her. 

Her hand slips into the depths of her purse and does not stop until it closes around the butt of her gun. She takes a deep breath, ready to pull it, ready to aim ( _can she fire?_ ). She stops walking, deciding that this is as good a place as any to make her stand. 

When she turns, he is not there. 

Karen stands, momentarily confused. The street is empty, bathed in a yellow glow from the lights. From an apartment above her she can hear music (not lyrics, just the thump of the bass). Her hand is still closed around the gun and she actually moves toward where she has last saw him. 

( _this is why Karen will never be one hundred percent safe; she walks towards danger_ ) 

A grunt to her left catches her attention. The .380 is drawn from her purse and she takes cautious steps toward the sound. It becomes readily apparent to her that a fight is occurring. She hears the telltale sounds of fists hitting flesh. She hears sharp cries of pain. She hears _bones break_. 

She finds herself standing in front of the narrow space that separates the apartment building with the pawn shop next door. It is hard to see anything clearly --- the two are so intertwined she can’t make out who is winning (not that she knows which ones she wants to come out on top). She slowly raises the gun and the metallic click of the hammer being pulled back causes the mass of muscles to freeze. 

One stands. 

She nearly drops her gun ( _nearly_ before fingers tighten around it). Even though the shadows keep him she knows. 

“ --- Frank,” she states and is surprised at how shaky her voice sounds. 

(she has thought she had hardened to him) 

He says nothing to her. Instead the dim light from the street catches the painted white skull as he brings his foot down on the other man’s chest. She lets out a whoosh of breath as she hears the spray of blood erupt from the man’s mouth. “Stay the hell away from her or the next time, you ain’t getting back up.” Frank’s voice sounds both foreign and familiar to her. 

Karen steps between the buildings. She can make out the hard lines of Frank’s face, see the blood pooling at the corner of his lips. Her mouth is still open slightly but she can’t find the right words to say. Frank isn’t waiting around either. He turns and moves away from her. 

She forces herself not to follow. 

**X**

He is always right there (probably always has been). 

**X**

The streets finally dry up, and a bit of warmth in the air teases everyone. 

She falls victim to it too, trading her winter coat for one that works fine during the day when the sun is out but fails miserably when the wind bites her on the walk home. As the temperature fluctuates everyone’s immune system takes a hit. 

Donovan, who writes sports, is patient zero. He shows up at work one day looking like a shell of himself. His skin is blotchy and he is covered in a thin layer of sweat. Karen avoids him the best she can but others are not as smart. One by one it spreads until her office looks like a hoard of zombies or a deserted waste land depending on the day. 

She spends a lot of time in her office with the door closed. There is a bottle of sanitizer within arm’s reach and she uses it liberally. However, the damage is done. She wakes one morning feeling as if she has been weighted down. She looks in the mirror and notes her chest is an angry red in color. 

Still, she is not as bad as the others so she shows up at _The Bulletin_. 

When Ellison checks on her mid-afternoon she realizes her head is foggy and she can’t quite answer the questions he asks. He curses under his breath. “You too, huh? Aren’t any of you smart enough to use the sick days that are provided to you?” He takes her jacket off the hook by the door and tosses it in her direction. “Go home, Karen. Before you try to argue --- I’m not asking you. I’m telling you. I’ve survived this plague this far. Like hell am I taking this home to my kids. You ever seen a child power puke, Page?” 

She knows better than to argue. She all but shuffles out the door. The air is cool and for a moment or two she finds it welcoming considering that she is just shy of overheating. However, she doesn’t get far before it becomes too much. She starts shivering. It progresses enough that her teeth actually chatter (it’s been a long time since she has done that). She has enough wits about her to stop at a bodega to fill a basket with remedies and a few cans of soup (she doubts she has the stomach for day old takeout). 

By the time she is closing the door of her apartment behind her, she is far too sick to think straight. She pours a glass of water in an effort to take something for her fever but in the end, the pill bottle and the glass of water are set on her bedside table and she allows the heaviness that started in the morning to pull her down on her bed. 

Shoes and all. 

Karen sleeps but it is far from peaceful. Her temperature is too high to allow her the kind of rest she truly needs. Instead the sickness invades her mind. Takes over. She _dreams_. 

At first they are simple enough to follow. She, Foggy and Matt in their glory days. Sitting around a desk in the worn office of _Nelson and Murdock _eating whatever they could scrounge up. Laughing.__

Then it mutates. 

Matt is wears the Daredevil mask and Foggy disappears. She wants to find him; she needs Matt’s help but he is too busy. She doesn’t understand how he can be too busy to find his friend. 

It shifts again and she finds herself staring down James Wesley. Only they aren’t in the depths of some nameless building. They are sitting across from one another in a familiar diner. The gun is between them and just like before, she takes it. 

When Wesley is dead, she stands, eager to leave that place. Between her and the door is the towering figure of Frank Castle. A gun hangs loosely by his side and she wonders if he is here to punish her. 

Logically she knows it is just a dream. She knows that she needs to pull herself free of it. She needs to crawl to the shower to cool down. She needs to take something and get some proper sleep. 

Instead her feet remain rooted to the spot in that diner and she decides that she will take what she deserves. 

Karen watches as Frank moves closer and she steels herself for the pain of it. She doesn’t think of Welsey, his face twisted in surprise as he bleeds out a few feet from her. She thinks of her brother. 

Cold shocks her system --- starting from the top of her head and moving quickly down over her face. 

She feels a different kind of relief than she had been expecting. It pulls her out of the diner and closer to reality. Frank is still there. His face looms over hers and she blinks. She can feel how she has soaked through her clothing now and wants nothing more than to wash herself off. When she tries to move, she hears Frank’s voice. 

“Hey, _hey_ …easy now.” 

It is what she needs to hear. She is in no shape to cover the short distance between her bed and the bathroom. It’s funny how she chooses Frank to be the voice of reason in this moment. Try as she might ( _and she has tried _) she just cannot shake him loose.__

She lies back in the bed. He doesn’t disappear completely, though she can no longer see him. She can hear him though. He tells her she needs to take something, urges her to reach for the glass. The pills don’t go down easy. They stick to the back of her throat and she almost panics until he reminds her she still has a half a glass of water in her hand. 

She can’t seem to open her eyes. She just lays there on her bed and hopes that whatever has a hold of her lets up soon. She thinks she hears Frank Castle in her kitchen, shuffling through its meager contents. Bottles of beer jostle together in the fridge ( _it sounds **so** loud _) and a top is twisted off one.__

“The hell you been eating?” She doesn’t answer because she can’t. “You expecting to survive on this? You’re a smart woman. You know better than to eat this processed shit.” 

_Yep, definitely an interesting choice to play the role of her conscience considering she is sure his diet consists only of black coffee_. 

Silence seems to settle in and she thinks she can feel the drugs move through her system, pushing back at her fever. She might get that relief she is so desperate for. She nearly gives a happy sigh. 

“M’boy was sick like this once.” Frank’s voice comes out of nowhere, seemingly floating over her. “His mother panicked. Thought we should drag him to the hospital --- you know how it is in the ER. A germ factory. I figured we keep a close eye on him, make sure his temperature went down instead of up and he’d be fine. We took turns sitting with him. I sent her to bed when it got dark. Figured I’d be better equipped to handle the night watch, you know? Sat there all night until the sun came up. He was in and out. Asking questions one moment and crying the next. Broke my heart to see him like that. I did what I could. Even sang to him. One of those ridiculous little lullabies. I can’t carry a tune for shit but I did it. Imagine that.” 

She can imagine it. The whole time she hears his voice her brain works to put together the corresponding picture. She sees Frank Castle and his son. She sees him stretched out, too big for the bed Frank Jr. is tucked into. She can hear him sing, though she can’t make out which song it is. He is right --- he can’t carry a tune for shit. 

Like before, the image shifts. The boy is ripped from the bed and Frank is frantic. 

Karen’s body jerks. 

She thinks she feels a hand close around her wrist --- something to keep her grounded. 

“You don’t have to do anything but rest, okay? Just sleep and it will pass.” He speaks so softly she doesn’t think she hears him at first. She decides in the end not to argue with Frank. 

She does what he says. 

She sleeps ( _truly_ ). 

When Karen opens her eyes, she feels worn down but free from the sickness that had overwhelmed her the day before. Sunlight pours in between the cracks of her blinds and she turns her head to glance at the clock. As she does, a cloth falls from her head. 

She goes rigid before she sits up straight in her bed. 

Her eyes roam over what little space she has in this city. There is no sign of anyone (no sign of _him_ ). Her fingers twist in the cloth. It is still a bit damp, still cool to the touch. She furrows her brows, trying desperately to piece together everything. 

She remembers the dreams. Or bits and pieces of them ( _Matt’s laugh, Wesley’s cry of surprise as the bullet tore through him, Frank’s voice_ ). She wonders if the last of it --- his voice, if that too has been a dream. 

She forces herself to stand. Her legs shake and before she can do another thing she finds herself moving toward the bathroom to heave what little she has in her stomach into the toilet. Surprisingly, it helps. 

Karen takes a moment to rinse out her mouth and splash water on her face. She smells of stale sweat but before she can take a shower she has to know. She moves back into the heart of her apartment, her eyes taking everything in. It is just how she remembered. However, her shoes are on the floor, one on its side while the other stands. She remembers falling on her bed with them on but she could have very well kicked them off in the throes of her fever induced dream. 

The pill bottle is still on her bedside table, though it has been knocked over. A few tablets are scattered. She thinks she had fumbled for them in the middle of the night. Hadn’t Frank been there to urge her to take them? To tell her to drink water? From there, she opens the fridge to count the number of beer she has left (only to find she can’t remember how many she had to begin with). She finds no empty bottle in her apartment either. 

The most obvious thing is look for his way in. She spends a few minutes going over the windows and the door and can find no proof that anyone even tried to break in. Feeling almost defeated, she strips away her soiled clothes and climbs into the shower. As she washes away what is left of her sick feeling, she wonders if she had pulled Frank out of the depths of her subconscious and molded him into what she needed at the moment. 

**X**

She realizes she will never be free of him. 

**X**

She returns to work a day later. She is well rested and ready to dive back into the sense of normalcy working at _The Bulletin_ gives her. She doesn’t go into detail when Ellison asks her how she feels (she doesn’t tell him that she has spent the previous day debating whether or not she had conjured up a mass murderer to comfort her). She simply smiles. “Ready to go, boss.” 

Ellison doesn’t question her. Instead he dumps a case file on her desk. She opens it to find crime scene photos ( _Is this Frank Castle?_ ). She swallows and then looks to him. “When was this?” 

“The night before last,” he says. “This guy was very much wanted by the police. Looks like Frank Castle got him first.” 

That settles it. Frank is capable of many things but being in two places at once is not one of them. She sighs and closes the file. “I’m on it.” 

She leaves at a decent time that day. She might be free of her fever and everything that went with it but her body is still recuperating. She might do the right thing and actually go to bed at a decent time. As she walks, she finds that she no longer feels like Frank is lurking nearby. 

She wonders if that has been in her head too. 

The first thing she notices when she opens her door is the brown paper bag sitting on the middle of her table. She freezes, half of her body still in the hall. Her eyes move quickly to ensure that there is no immediate danger. Then she pulls her gun. No hesitation. 

She leaves the door open as she moves into her apartment. The bathroom door is ajar, just as she had left it that morning. She moves towards her closet and uses the toe of her pump to reveal its contents. Nothing. 

Karen frowns as she lowers the gun and then heads toward the paper bag. She can see the green leaves of a head of lettuce poking out now. Her mouth opens slightly as she pulls forth more fresh vegetables, a bunch of bananas. 

There is a note, written with precision on the back of one of her bills. 

_Better than that processed shit. Eat it and get a better lock on your door _\--- **Frank** __

Karen sinks down in a nearby chair. She has to read the note again and again to make it real. She can feel the paper between her fingers but it takes a moment or two it to really sink in. Frank has been in her apartment. 

More than once. 

He had been the one to press the cold cloth to her head, to tell her to rest. She had listened as he talked about his son. Sometime during that night, Frank had both comforted her and brought a brutal end to a man. She almost hopes that he had come to her first --- it helps appease some locked away guilt to picture him carefully removing her shoes with clean hands. 

In the end, as she puts the food away in her fridge, she feels almost relieved that it hasn’t all been in her head. 

**X**

Frank Castle is flesh and blood, _very much alive_ and she can no longer ignore that fact.


End file.
